


The London Whore

by Prismacolor



Category: Frontier (TV 2016)
Genre: Drug Use, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Prostitution, M/M, Male Slash, Mutilation, Rape/Non-con Elements, References to Drugs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2019-02-27 19:53:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13255467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prismacolor/pseuds/Prismacolor
Summary: Life wasn’t easy for Michael Smith, never had been. She was a cruel mistress to most who claim her, life was, but she was especially cruel to Michael- even in the "new world", which, admittedly, no longer felt new. Not with his old problems finding new ways to haunt him. Still, it had to be better than London.  ..Right?





	1. Untrust Us_i

**Author's Note:**

> This picks up at the end of EP2/start of EP3, of season one. I know it just kinda.. throws you into this mostly A/U, but my intent is to gradually loop back around to what happened prior to this chapter, and so, if I stick with this work and you do, too, it'll be more of a linear timeline in a nonlinear way. Make sense? ..No? Err...
> 
> This is my first time writing anything, except completely original stories. After sitting dormant on the computer for literally weeks and weeks and weeks, _this_ is what I managed to salvage from my document of 10,000+ characters. It's not exactly what I had intended to write, but here it is! Also, this is completely unbeta'd (maaaaaybe someone will find this interesting enough to like..idk, take on the role??).
> 
> *ahem*
> 
> Please lemme know what you think. All manner of feedback will be met with deep appreciation.
> 
> Oh, also.. I wouldn't say this is necessarily a _graphic_ depiction of non-con, but it's definitely depicted and as such, you should probably avoid/skim over that particular block of writing if you'll be disturbed by such a thing. I like to torture characters.. *shrug*
> 
>  
> 
> And, as always, the characters and story are a work of fiction. The only thing here that belongs to me is this work of fiction itself, all other material belongs to its original creator/copyright holder. Any issues that arise from this work of fiction can easily be resolved by its removal- your wish is my command.

When Michael came to, it was the stinging cold that brought him to his senses. He opened his eyes, squinting as they adjusted to the bright, early morning light reflecting on the snow. He groaned as he became aware of the throbbing pain on his face and the metallic taste in his mouth.

“He’s awake!”

A voice from behind startled Michael, making him jump and effectively eliminating any chance of his slipping back into an unconscious state. He tried to turn and look in the direction of where the voice had come from only to discover his hands were bound, stifling his movement. He suddenly noticed the matching gag covering his mouth.

“Well, well, well.. Our little Irish runaway is awake,” a man gruff looking man with a Scottish accent observed, walking around Michael to stand in front of him. 

Michael moved to sit up, but the man shoved him back down with a foot to his chest. He kept it there, holding Michael in place. “Now where do you think you’re goin’? There’s a reward waitin’ for me when I take you back to the fort.”

“I think you mean for us,” another man said, as he walked over and joined the first. “There’s a reward waitin’ for us.”

“Shut up, you idjits,” came a third voice, with a much thicker Scottish accent than the others. It was an older, greasy man. He carried a rifle, slinging it over his shoulder as he joined the first two men. “The reward’ll be split between us; he’s worth five times your weight in ale.”

The man that held Michael down removed his foot from the boy’s chest, kneeling down beside him. He grabbed Michael’s chin, forcefully tilting his head to get a better look at his bruised face. “I can see why Harp made off with you,” he observed, letting go of his chin to brush the boy’s hair out of his face. “You’re a pretty little thing, aren’t ya?”

Michael jerked his head away, the motion causing his entire face to throb. He was no stranger to fighting, but last night he’d been taken by surprise and, as such, his face bore the bruises from the blows he couldn’t defend himself against.

“Didja expect anythin’ different, from a London whore?” the greasy man asked, standing behind the one kneeling by Michael’s side. 

Michael’s eyes widened at the mention of his past- a dangerous thing for anyone to know about him, let alone these crooked, murderous men. They killed a boy, an innocent boy, in cold blood just last night, so what would they do to someone not so innocent? What would they do to a whore running from his past?

The man closest to Michael laughed at his fearful expression. “That’s right, we know all about you,” he taunted, his eyes running up and down the length of Michael’s body. “Chesterfield told us about the deal you made with Benton.. But you’re not holding up your end of the deal, are ya lad?”

“Maybe he’d like tuh make a new deal, then- one with us,” the third man suggested as he moved closer to the other two. Michael’s eyes shifted between the three of them, his pulse racing. “Maybe we won’t tell your new friends about London, if you was to do somethin’ for us.”

The kneeling man laughed again, a sound that sent a shiver down Michael’s spine. “I say we leave ‘im here when we’re done, let ‘em find ‘im like this,” he said, snaking his hand up Michael’s thigh to the waistband of his trousers. He gave it a sharp tug. “There’ll be nothin’ left of ‘im when they’re through.”

Michael started to panic from behind the gag, breathing short and sharp as the realization set in: Declan. He’d not stopped to think of what Harp and his people would do if they were to find out. The only thing he’d thought of us was running away, out in the wilderness, where no talk of his past could be found. But what if it somehow was, and one of them knew? What if Harp himself knew? Michael didn’t like those chances anymore than he liked the ones he was currently facing: what were these men going to do to him? And where was Harp? Watching? Waiting? Michael's eyes darted around the clearing, searching the tree line for the familiar form of Declan Harp.

“I worked for a man, once,” the man kneeling in front of Michael began, his voice bringing Michael’s focus back to the present. His hand remained at Michael’s waistband, running his finger in circles around the button found there. “A camp of ‘is was attacked by Declan Harp, and ‘is people. They had a young boy with ‘em. He went missin’ after the raid, only to stumble back into camp weeks later, all fucked up an’ bloody, an’ bruised. You wouldn’ta believed them stories he told us of what they done to ‘im, before he died. Poor lad only lasted a few days after he returned; there was nothin’ we coulda done to save ‘im, either. We watched ‘im suffer for _days_ before he died.”

Michael swallowed nervously, trying to read the face of the man in front of him. The man’s eyes were distant, focusing only on the button of Michael’s trousers, like he was reliving the days he was describing. 

Michael’s gut told him not to trust this man’s word, not over Declan’s, but his gut told him he didn’t know Harp well enough to make that judgement all the same. Besides, before he’d said anything about having information on Lord Benton, when he was first drug to Harp’s camp, Declan had every intention of killing both him and Father Coffin. It was only Michael’s usefulness that saved them from their fate. He wondered, would Harp find him so useful now after, stupidly, being captured by these men, after failing to protect Kitchi or warn the others of what was happening last night? Or would they do to him what they did to the Scottish boy? What did they even do to the boy? Was Harp really a part of it? 

As if he was able to read Michael’s thoughts, the third man asked the same question on Michael’s mind: “What was done to him?”

Michael looked from the man who’d asked the question back to the one in front of him. A faint smirk appeared on the man’s face, but it was gone as quick as it came, making Michael wonder if it was even there in the first place. “The lad let slip that he preferred the company of men, and not women,” the man said, looking up from Michael’s trousers and making eye contact with him. “And so that’s what they gave ‘im- the company of many, many men.”

Michael froze, eyes searching the face of the man in front of him for any clues that he might not be telling the truth. ‘Please, _please_ , be lying..’ he thought, studying the man's expression. 

“If I was you, I’d take any deal offered to me,” the man said, holding Michael’s gaze. “Just to get away from Declan Harp.” 

“No,” came a stern voice, startling both Michael and the men. He turned to look in the direction the voice came from, as did the other two. The voice was from the older man, as he walked a few feet away to the treeline. “No,” he repeated, setting his musket down and propping it up against the trunk of a pine. His hands went to the buttons of his coat, undoing them in rapid succession. With the coat undone, he pulled it off and tossed it on the ground beside his weapon.

A prickling sensation of dread ran up and down Michael's spine, making the hair on his arms and on the back of his neck stand on end. 

“We don’t make any deals with ‘im,” he continued, walking back over to Michael and the other men. “We deal with Chesterfield- not this lad, not Declan Harp, not the Black Wolf Company. Just Chesterfield.”

He stopped, standing directly in front of Michael and looking down at him. “And there’s a reward for takin’ ‘im back to the fort: one that I don’t feel like goin’ without,” he said, licking his chapped lips. “There’s another reward I don’t much feel like goin’ without- that pretty mouth, and that tight ass."

Michael whimpered in surprise, trying to scramble back away from the men, but the one with his hand on Michael’s pants yanked him back by his waistband.

“Take his pants off!” the older man ordered, and before Michael could so much as react, two sets of hands were on him, holding him in place as they ripped his pants down, sending the buttons flying off in the process.

Michael cried out as he struggled in their grasp, the piercing cold stinging his newly exposed skin. He grunted, thrashing around and flailing his bound hands. He managed to land a blow on one of the men’s faces, causing the man to temporarily lose his grip and groan in pain. 

He swung wildly as he tried to hit the other man, the taste of blood suddenly filling his mouth as the man he’d already hit retaliated with several of his own blows to Michael’s face. 

“Flip ‘im over,” he heard faintly, the voice muffled and quiet- everything sounded like he was underwater.

His vision went dark when the pain finally hit him, delayed slightly by the burning numbness of the cold, and he was only vaguely aware of his body being flipped over. His face was forced into the snow, with the cold once again making him go numb long enough for him to become aware of a different pain- a familiar burning and tearing sensation, one that he’d promised himself he’d never feel again when he left London, as one of the men forced his way into Michael, groaning at the tight warmth of his backside. 

The man thrust his hips forward, pushing himself further into the boy, who cried out helplessly. The man slowly pulled his hips back, stopping only when the tip of his length remained in the boy’s backside. With a grunt, he thrust forward again, hard and fast, ignoring Michael’s yelp of pain as the boy felt his insides tearing. He quickly built up a selfish and unforgiving pace, taking Michael with a violent determination to find his own release.

Michael cried out with each thrust as he desperately begged the man to stop, but his head was shoved deeper in the snow to quiet him. He gasped, struggling to breathe with his face buried. He inhaled through his nose, the snow quickly filling his nostrils, causing a burning cold to throb through his sinuses. He tried to breathe through his mouth instead, but from behind the gag, he took in very little air. 

He let out a pathetic sob, worried he was going to suffocate. He tried pleading with the man again, begging from behind the gag as loud as he possibly could. At the sound of Michael’s voice, the man above him shoved his face into the ground harder. “If you don’t shut the fuck up right now, I’ll kill ya right where ya are, boy,” he hissed, his thrusts becoming more and more erratic as his end drew nearer. “Do you fuckin’ understand me?”

Michael whimpered and nodded weakly from under the man’s hand, hot tears flowing freely down his cheeks and mingling with the melting snow around him. He struggled to breathe, with each breath drawing in more snow than it did air, leaving him feeling like he was drowning. He coughed, choking as he tried unsuccessfully to raise his head above the snow.

As the moments passed, Michael felt himself start to lose consciousness. His vision became blurred and unfocused, his head swimming and dizzy. The pain of the man’s thrusts became more and more distant, until Michael barely felt anything at all. He exhaled what little air was left in his lungs, unable to fight to raise his head anymore, and waited for it to be over. One way or another, it would all be over..


	2. Untrust Us_ii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if it sucks. Admittedly, I was in a rush to get through this, but only 'cause this part seems so burdensome. Just wanna get on with the story. Plus, this turned out much longer than I originally anticipated and I didn't go over it with a fine toothed comb and just.. UGH. I'd love to hear what anyone who reads this thinks, whether it's nice or not so nice doesn't matter much. .

“Harp, over here,” a voice called out ahead of him, making Declan pick up his pace to join its owner, Sokanon, about fifty or sixty feet ahead.

“Tracks pick up again here,” she said when he joined her, pointing to a steep bank alongside the stream they’d been following for what was at least a mile or two now. 

“They went up here,” she said, following the tracks up the bank with her eyes. Declan nodded, doing the same.

“They’re not going to Fort James,” he observed, kneeling down to run his hands along the footprints marring the otherwise pristine bank. He ran his hand over a deep smear in the mud of the bank, where someone had obviously lost their footing. _Michael._

“Their feet were cold when they tried to climb here. Walking through the stream like that is only going to slow them down. They’ll have difficulty walking,” Sokanon said, noticing a slight shift in Declan’s demeanor as he withdrew his hand from the bank. “…we’ll find them,” she said carefully, trying to gauge what caused the sudden, albeit brief, change in Harp.

“And we’ll kill them,” Dimanche added harshly, avoiding the frigid water as he made his way to the others. “We’ll make them pay for what they did to Kitchi.”

“No,” Harp replied, rising to his feet. “We need to find out who it was first, who they’re working for.. They took Michael alive. We need to find out why, what they’re planning.”

“How do you know it wasn’t Michael?” Dimanche spat, irritated with the way Harp always defended the newcomer. It’d taken Dimanche years to earn what little respect Harp gave him, and this boy, this Irish twat, just shows up out of nowhere and becomes a respected part of their group, without even earning it. “He said he made a deal with Benton; how do you know this isn’t part of it?”

“I don’t,” Harp answered, tone low and devoid of emotion. He turned his back to Dimanche, climbing up the bank effortlessly. “That’s what I’m going to find out.”

“What are we going to do if it was Michael?” Sokanon asked, accepting the hand offered by Declan as she made her way up the bank to follow him.

Harp pulled her up the bank, their bodies close as she reached the top. He made no move to put any amount of distance between them. “Then he’s no different than the rest of Benton’s men,” he answered, ignoring the sudden pang of guilt in his chest. No different, indeed.  
*************************************************************************************

Michael sucked in a large breath, his chest burning and his head throbbing. He stayed lying in the snow, motionless except for the rapid rising and falling of his chest as he greedily tried to take in as much air as he could. 

He opened his eyes to try to figure out where he was, but his vision swam and blurred together in bright, colorful explosions of shapes and forms as the oxygen he’d been denied surged through his lungs and his body, leaving him lightheaded and disoriented.

He closed his eyes again and tried to think of where he was last, who he was with. The last thing he remembered was.. _’Oh, god..’_

A sudden coughing fit took over and racked his body, making him convulse as he coughed up some of the fluid he’d inhaled earlier. His throat and lungs felt as though they were on fire and the cold air he was breathing in didn’t make it any better, just more painful.

He grunted, surprised, as his shoulders were suddenly grabbed and used to flip him over. He opened his eyes again. The sun was bright, brighter than it should be, and the light made his head throb. He turned his head to the side and squinted, barely making out the form of one of his captors walking away as he buckled his pants.

Cold hands on his hips made Michael turn his head sharply, vision fuzzy as he strained to look down. One of the other men pulled his pants up, leaving them undone due to the missing buttons that had been ripped off earlier. 

“Awake again, I see,” the man snorted sarcastically, noticing Michael watching him. 

Michael just groaned as he closed his eyes and let his head fall back in the snow. From the look of it, he’d managed to stay unconscious for the worst part and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t wholly relieved. It wouldn’t be the first time.

He opened his eyes again when he heard the crunching sound of approaching footsteps in the snow. One of the men had walked over and kneeled down by his head, grabbing Michael’s bound hands and holding them in place over his head. 

He struggled against him, but his muscles were sore and weak as the adrenaline rushed through his body and fear began to set in again. While he was focused on fighting with the man who’d grabbed him from above, the other man- the one who’d redressed Michael, took advantage of the boy’s distraction and seized his ankles, holding them firmly in place with both hands. 

“Hold him tight,” the older man ordered as he loomed above the other two, “and take off that gag- I want to hear him scream.”  
*************************************************************************************

“Declan, wait,” Sokanon panted, bracing herself against a thin tree trunk. She’d been struggling to keep up with him since they’d breached the bank of the stream, and Dimanche was no different- he was lengths behind them, nearly jogging to keep up.

“You’re going too fast; we’re going to miss something!”

“Don’t be too hard on him,” Dimanche wheezed, finally catching up to her and Harp, who was still several paces ahead of them both. “He’s lost his Irish pet.. Can’t you see how worried he is?”  
“Mind your tongue,” Declan scolded, turning around and stalking his way over to Dimanche. He narrowed his eyes, glaring at him. “Or I’ll cut it from your head.”

“Declan, stop,” Sokanon breathed, deliberately placing herself between the two men. It didn’t stop Declan from continuing to glare at Dimanche from over her head, and she didn’t need to turn around to know Dimanche was returning the look.

“Fighting amongst ourselves isn’t going to help us,” she said, scolding them both the way an angry mother would chastise her misbehaved children. She cut her eyes to Declan. “It isn’t going to help Michael.”

Declan’s expression softened somewhat, and he let his stiff posture relax, but only barely. And only until Dimanche spoke up again.

“If he even needs our help,” he scoffed. “For all we know, this is a trap. And we’re running into it blindly, all because of a lovesick pup-“

Sokanon grunted, surprised, as Harp pushed her aside to close the distance between he and Dimanche. Harp backhanded him, grabbing the collar of his coat with both hands as the other man reeled from the blow.

“How’s that for lovesick?” he snarled, his face just inches away from Dimanche’s. The other man hissed, curling his lip to match Declan’s expression.

“Declan!” Sokanon yelled, grabbing the sleeve of Harp’s fur coat and giving it a sharp tug. “Stop!”

“Oh, I’m the one who has to stop?” Declan asked, suddenly turning his anger on Sokanon. He shrugged her grip on his sleeve away, not yet letting go of Dimanche’s collar. 

If looks could kill, Declan Harp would have been a dead man standing with the look he received from Sokanon. “Yes,” she hissed, through grit teeth. “You both do. You’re both acting like children! Over what? Jealousy?” She cut her angry scowl to Dimanche, who looked away from her accusatory glare. He knew that last part was meant entirely for him, and, though he’d never admit it out loud, she was right. She usually was.

“This is getting us nowhere,” she continued, shoving Declan hard, harder than he’d shoved her, when he finally let go of Dimanche. The native made a move to retaliate against Declan, taking a determined step forward, but he, too, was shoved back by the furious woman once again standing between them.

Dimanche glared at Sokanon, but felt his resolve crumble under her gaze. Instead, he wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, licking the wound on his bottom lip.

Declan took a step back, smirking as he watched Dimanche literally lick his wounds. Serves him right.

“We need to stay focused,” Sokanon began, but she was abruptly cut off by a sharp “ _Ssssh_ ” from Declan. Ordinarily she would have hushed him just the same, but the way his eyes scanned their surroundings made her reach for her bow instead.

“What is it?” she asked quietly, her own eyes searching for a hidden danger that was no doubt about to make itself known.

“A scream,” Dimanche answered for Declan, holding impossibly still and listening to the silence around them.  
*************************************************************************************

“Someone’s gunna hear ‘im!” the man holding Michael’s ankles said urgently, eyes wide and fearful as he watched the older of them bring the blade back to the boy’s abdomen.  
He looked to the man across from him, the one holding Michael’s bound hands. “Cover ‘is mouth! Cover it!”

“No,” the older man snapped, sharply looking over at the nervous wreck of a man beside him. He turned his attention back to the Irish boy squirming beneath them, lightly dragging the blade across the boy’s skin. He smiled when it drew a terrified whimper from the boy’s lips.

“You didn’t hold up your end of the deal, boy. I’m gunna make sure we hold up ours. Now all your new friends will know your secret; you won’t be able to run from this anymore.”

Michael panted beneath him, breaths coming in wild, ragged gasps. He let out another desperate scream as the blade pierced his skin again, carving into his flesh with the skill and precision of a surgeon’s scalpel. 

The man paused briefly, withdrawing the blade before moving on to the next carefully considered expanse of skin. The boy beneath him screamed again, his voice hoarse and breaking.  
*************************************************************************************

Sokanon nearly jumped out of her skin when she, too, heard a distant scream. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end as she recognized the voice, even from afar. “That’s Michael,” she whispered, more to herself than to the others.

“There!” Declan exclaimed, turning in the direction the scream, Michael’s desperate scream, had come from. “This way!”

He wasted no time in making sure the others were following him, simply trusting that they were keeping up and following close behind.  
*************************************************************************************

“We shouldn’ta done that,” the man at Michael’s ankles said, letting go of him as the older one stood up and wiped his blade on his coat. “If anyone was lookin’ for him, lookin’ for us, they know where to find us now.”

“Get up,” the older man ordered, kicking Michael in the ribs and drawing a pained groan from his lips. He turned to the other man, who also stood up. “And you two shut up- get him to his feet.”

The other two men exchanged nervous glances before working in tandem to haul Michael to his feet, holding him tight as he stumbled.

Michael stood in the grasp of the two men, almost grateful for their support as his entire body throbbed in pain. His vision blurred from his sudden upright position, and he wasn’t sure he’d still be standing if not for the two men holding him up. He tried to pull away from them despite this, grunting in displeasure as he was held fast.

“Let’s go,” the older man said, a twinge of unease in his own voice. He turned on his heel, heading for the tree line where his musket remained propped up against the trunk of a tree. He stretched out a hand to make a grab for the barrel of the weapon, only to have an arrow pierce his hand and send him stumbling backward with a shrill scream.

As he dropped to his knees, clutching his hand to his chest, one of the men holding Michael let go of him and readied his weapon, eyes scanning the clearing.

The other man, the one now supporting nearly all of Michael’s weight, stumbled back a few steps under the newfound weight as he, too, glanced around the clearing. Michael sucked in a nervous breath as he leaned against the other man, unable to support himself entirely despite wanting nothing more than to put distance between them. He looked up just in time to see the other man fall and hit the ground with a sickening thud. As his body fell forward, the cause of his end became apparent: a single arrow lodged in his spine.

Michael’s eyes shot up when he noticed movement out of the corner of his eye, looking to the edge of the clearing. His heart skipped a beat when he realized who it was. Sokanon!   
She was standing a few steps beyond where the tree line opened up into the clearing, bow ready with another arrow. She raised it, aiming in Michael’s direction.

“No, w-wait! Sokanon, I-” Michael stuttered, trying to protect his head with his arms as he mistook her aiming for him, rather than the man behind him. He jumped when he more felt than heard the impact of an arrow, squeezing his eyes shut.

After a few seconds he opened his eyes again, surprised when there was no pain to accompany the impact. He looked behind him, to the man he was leaning against, seeing the arrow was lodged in his chest rather than his own. 

“Oh, god,” he gasped, trying unsuccessfully to squirm out of the man’s grasp. The man’s hands tightened on Michael’s coat, his dying weight falling against Michael and sending them both to the ground. 

Michael yelped as they landed, the man falling on top of him and landing on the wound on his abdomen. He struggled to push the gurgling body off him, their blood mixing together and further staining the front of Michael’s shirt.

Sokanon ran to Michael’s side, helping him shove the body off him. She kneeled beside him, hands running over the wet stain covering most of his shirt. “Are you hurt?” she asked, not waiting for an answer before her hands went to the bottom of Michael’s shirt, moving to pull it up.

Michael quickly yanked his shirt back down before she could expose his wound, swatting her hands away as much as he could with his hands still tied. “I-I’m fine, I’m fine,” he stammered, breathing hard. “It’s not mine, the blood. It’s not mine, it’s his.”

She scowled at the obvious lie. “But-” she began, gesturing behind her, where she’d noticed several bright pink and red blotches in the snow toward the middle of the clearing.

“Are you okay, boy?” Declan asked, appearing over Sokanon’s shoulder. He stood behind her, looking down at Michael. His eyes immediately went to the bright red stain on the upper half of the boy’s shirt, following it down to his abdomen where it turned darker. The otherwise tan, ragged material was saturated with fresh blood. “You’re wounded,” he observed, gaze flickering back up to Michael’s bruised face.

“No! No, I’m fine,” Michael lied quickly, defensively, looking up at Declan. He let out a nervous snort when the look on Declan’s face made it obvious he wasn’t going to get away with lying so blatantly. “I mean.. They beat the shite out of me, and I’m freezin’ my arse off, but.. I’m fine, I swear it.”

“Hmph,” Declan grunted, nodding his head affirmatively and letting the lie go for now. He gestured to the dead man sprawled out beside Michael in the snow. “Take his coat,” he told the boy, looking down at him and then turning to Sokanon. “Help him.”

“Harp!” Sokanon protested, scowl deepening as she watched Declan walk away to join Dimanche, who was taking the only surviving man as a captive of their own.

“He won’t talk,” Dimanche growled, briefly glancing at Declan as he made his way over before looking back down at his captive. “We should kill him, for what they did to Kitchi.”

“Oh, we’re not going to kill anyone,” Declan replied, shaking his head. “Not yet.” He stood in front of their captive. “The Low River Company tartan. Do you work for Malcom Brown?”

“They didn’t say anything about a Malcom Brown,” Michael butted in, breathing heavily as he hobbled his way over with Sokanon’s help.   
Both Declan and Dimanche turned their attention to the boy, waiting for him to continue. 

“He said it was Chesterfield,” Michael explained, nodding in the direction of their captive. He held on to Sokanon tightly, more for assurance than actual need at this point. He wasn’t disappointed when she pulled him in closer, as if sensing his hesitation. “He said they don’t deal with anyone but Chesterfield. They were gunna take me.. back to the fort, for a.. A reward, I guess.”

“And what else did they say?” Dimanche asked, moving behind their captive. He grabbed him by the hair, tilting his head up and exposing his neck.

“Nothin’,” Michael lied, swallowing hard. He looked down when he felt Declan’s eyes on him, subconsciously leaning into Sokanon a bit more.

Sokanon felt a rush of protectiveness come over her as she realized Michael was more or less clinging to her for a sense of security. She glanced at Declan, trying to catch his eyes with her own. When their eyes did finally meet, she gestured in Michael’s direction with a slight roll of her eyes and a subtle nod of her head. 

Declan recognized the look, immediately understanding the meaning behind it. They both knew the boy was off, and hurting more than he’d let on. He was sure Sokanon had caught more than one of his lies, too. After all, it wasn’t hard to tell when Michael was lying. It never had been. 

Harp nodded his understanding to her, before turning to Dimanche. He gave a sharp nod to the other man, and without hesitation, Dimanche drew a blade across their captive’s throat, letting him drop and bleed out.

“If they were working with Chesterfield, we know Benton’s behind this,” Declan said, looking back and forth between Dimanche and Sokanon. “We need to get to the Lake Walkers and tell them who their real enemy is.”

“But the Browns are our competition, why not let the Lake Walkers take care of them?” Sokanon asked, brow furrowing in confusion.

“Because that’s what Benton wants,” Michael answered quietly, keeping his eyes down a second longer before chancing a glance up at Declan. “Right? If we’re out here killin’ each other it makes it easier for him to tighten his grip and control the trade.”

Declan’s chest swelled with pride- the boy had been paying attention, thinking, reasoning, and understanding, all along. He looked down briefly, hiding a fleeting smile, before he looked up and continued. “If we’re going to take down Benton, we need all the independent companies to work together,” he agreed. “Now, let’s go.”


	3. Suffocation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMFG. This was a _bitch_ to write. And I still don’t know how I feel about this one. I kind of like it, but I mostly think it’s shitty writing, and it took _way too long_. I didn’t really look this one over so let me know what you think, or if you find an error or something that doesn’t make sense.   
>  Also, since the series makes it seem as though characters travel between locations in only a matter of hours, I did the same here. I know that’s not how it would really work considering the distances they travel, but if it’s okay for TV, it’s okay for fanfiction. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone taking the time to read this and leave reviews/kudos.

As they began their journey back to the Lake Walker camp, Michael did his best to not rely entirely on Sokanon as they walked. She had different plans, however, and kept him close with one arm under his shoulders and the other free to catch him if he stumbled.

She kept an eye on him, without making it painfully obvious that she was doing so. Michael was distracted trying to navigate the uneven terrain in the least painful way possible, too focused on the task at hand to notice the scrutiny he was under. 

Sokanon attentively took stock of every breath, step, and move he made, adjusting her gait to better suit his condition as it gradually worsened.

Mere hours into the trek, he’d developed an obvious limp and the brunt of his weight was placed on her shoulders every other step. She was beginning to grow weary from the exertion, but Michael wore the exhaustion in a more direct manner: every step came accompanied by a quiet, pained grunt or grimace, his breathing was sharp and labored, and beads of perspiration collected on the furrowed brow of his now-pale face.

“We should rest,” Sokanon suggested before long, concerned and keenly aware of the condition Michael was in. 

Declan, leading the group, stopped and turned around to face the others. One look at Michael and Sokanon was all it took for him to realize he’d been pushing them too hard- they were still hours out, and they both looked ready to collapse. A twinge of guilt made his heart beat a little faster. 

“We’re hours away,” Dimanche pointed out, bringing up the rear of the group. “We’re losing daylight. If we stop now, we might as well make camp for the night.”

“No, we rest here,” Declan said, agreeing with Sokanon. It was the least he could do considering how he’d overlooked not only Michael’s wellbeing, but also Sokanon’s, in his effort to get to the Lake Walker camp faster. 

“Well… We shouldn’t wait longer than we have to,” Dimanche said slowly, giving in once he’d glanced over at Michael and Sokanon, taking in their weary appearances.

“We won’t,” Declan agreed, nodding once. He went over to Sokanon, helping her lower Michael down to a sitting position, propped up against a tree. 

Dimanche dropped himself down onto a nearby stump, taking advantage of the break even though he would’ve preferred they keep going. He let Declan and Sokanon handle the boy; if now was the time to rest, that’s exactly what he was going to do. 

“Here, you should eat this,” Sokanon said, retrieving a chunk of dried meat from her pack. She handed one to Michael, before taking another out for Declan and one for herself.

“Thanks,” Michael said enthusiastically, taking a bite of the meat. He was grateful for the food, but even more so for the break. While sitting, the pain became less of a sharp throb and more of a dull ache. He wouldn’t have minded if they were forced to make camp here for the night, just as long as it meant he’d be able to stay off his feet.

They sat in silence as they ate, the only sounds around them from the wilderness itself- the occasional chirp from a bird or the lonely call of an animal.

“I need to refill this,” Sokanon said after a few minutes, the first to break the silence. She stood up, taking a canteen with her. “I saw a stream not too far back.”

Heaving himself up off the ground, Declan stood. “You shouldn’t go alone. I’ll go with you,” he said. He looked at Michael. “You’ll be okay here with Dimanche?”

“I’ll be fine as long as he doesn’t make me move,” Michael answered, doing his best to force a slight smile and assure them he’d be alright. He didn’t particularly want to be left alone with Dimanche or with any of them, except maybe Sokanon, but it seemed worth it just to have Declan away for a while. Dimanche didn’t seem even remotely interested, but Declan was practically hovering since they’d stopped walking. It made him uncomfortable given just how easy it would be for Declan to figure everything out, figure Michael out, and then only god knows what would happen. He shuddered at the thought.

“Get as much rest as you can, while you can,” Declan said, noticing the slight tremble run through Michael’s body. He wondered if it was the cold or the pain, or maybe something else entirely. “We’ll head out when we return.” 

Michael nodded a bit, keeping his eyes down and his mouth shut as Sokanon began to walk away. He wanted to scream or yell or even beg for her to stay and let Declan go alone, but he knew the others were already suspicious enough. He was sure they didn’t quite believe him when he’d tried to lie about what happened, and he knew if he acted any more out of character that there’d be no chance of getting them to eventually believe him. So, instead, he crossed his arms over his chest and closed his eyes, hoping, and halfway praying, that Sokanon would return quickly. 

Declan’s eyes stayed on Michael just a few seconds longer before he finally turned to follow Sokanon. He waited until they were well out of earshot to talk to her.

“How bad is he?” 

Sokanon sighed, looking down as she walked. “I don’t know,” she answered honestly. “But I know it’s not good.”

“He’s struggling. I don’t think he can walk on his own. I don’t think he’ll be able to keep going, even with someone helping him,” she continued. “He’s pale, like he’s losing blood. But it looks like his shirt is drying, so he’s not bleeding.”

Declan listened as Sokanon described Michael’s condition, doing his best to steady his fluctuating emotions. It was as if his mind couldn’t pick between the sadness that came with the mention of Michael being in pain, the anger at those who caused it, the guilt of not having stopped it, and the helplessness of not being able to do anything about it. A large part of not being able to do anything was Michael’s own fault, as he seemed nothing short of determined to prevent anyone from helping, or even knowing what was wrong with him or what happened to him. 

To Declan, Michael didn’t seem like a prideful person, so he guessed it wasn’t pride that kept the boy’s mouth shut. It didn’t seem as though he was worried about coming off as weak either, not with how easily he’d accepted Sokanon’s help. Michael seemed to want more to do with her than Declan, he thought, almost like he’d done something to make the boy want to avoid him. He tried to think of something, anything, he might’ve done to upset the boy or make him want to avoid him.

“At least not from there.”

Sokanon’s voice brought Declan back from his thoughts. “What?”

“He’s not bleeding from the wound on his front,” she repeated. “But he’s pale, like he’s losing blood.”

“He said it wasn’t his blood on his shirt.”

“And you believe that?”

It was Declan’s turn to sigh. “No, I don’t.”

“What are we going to do?” Sokanon asked as they reached the stream. She bent down by the water’s edge, taking the cap off the canteen. She placed it in the water, watching as it filled up with fresh, crystal clear water.

“We need to get to the Lake Walkers.”

She nodded, turning to face Declan. “I know. But how are we going to get him there?”

He watched her face, her normal scowl replaced with a worried one. 

“I can’t carry him anymore,” she said.

Declan nodded. “I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize,” he trailed off, feeling guilty. It hurt to admit he hadn’t noticed the way they’d been struggling, hurt to admit that it was his own fear of losing Michael that made him push the group harder without a second thought. 

Sokanon nodded in understanding, recognizing the pained, guilty expression on Declan’s face. Though she didn’t know the depth of his guilt or all the reasons for it, she felt no resentment for the position she’d been put in. It was one she took on willingly, but she’d underestimated the boy’s injuries in the same way Declan had. 

“I didn’t either, not right away. You shouldn’t feel bad,” she said, standing up and handing the canteen to Declan. 

He took several long drinks before passing it back to Sokanon, so she could do the same. She bent down to refill it once more, replacing the cap and rising.

“We need to make it to the Lake Walkers camp as soon as we can,” Declan said, turning to head back to Dimanche and Michael. “It’s the only way he’s going to make it. Even if we make him tell us what’s wrong, there’s nothing we can do out here but watch him suffer.”

Sokanon nodded and they began walking back, purpose and determination, and perhaps even fear, spurring their pace as they walked quickly.  
********  
When they’d rejoined the rest of the group, Declan’s eyes immediately went to where they’d left Michael. The boy was still propped up against the trunk of a tree, but with his head down and body motionless. He glanced over at Dimanche who was still seated on the same stump, fiddling with a knife in his lap.

An uneasy feeling swept over Declan as he hurriedly made his way to the boy. “Michael?” he asked, kneeling in front of him. He said the boy’s name again, reaching a hand out to gently shake his shoulder when he didn’t get a response.

Michael’s head shot up, eyes wild and unfocused as he instinctively tried to back away from whatever it was that had pulled him from his unconscious state. The tree he was leaning against kept him from getting too far, and all he’d really managed to do was press himself against the trunk uncomfortably.

Declan smiled slightly, letting out the breath he didn’t know he was holding. Though he looked scared, Michael looked more alive now than he had all afternoon. “You’re okay, Michael. It’s just me.”

Michael shrugged Declan’s hand off his shoulder, heart still racing as he remained braced against the trunk. “What do you want?” he asked nervously, uncomfortable with how close the other man was. 

“It’s time to go,” Declan replied, noticing but not addressing the standoffish tone to Michael’s voice. He stood up and offered Michael his hand, curious to see how the boy would react. “If we stay here any longer, we won’t make it to the Lake Walkers camp before nightfall.”

Michael considered Declan’s hand for a moment before turning to look at Sokanon, his expression questioning and eyes not far from pleading.

“Drink first,” Sokanon said to Michael, handing him the canteen she’d filled with fresh water from the stream. 

Ignoring Declan’s outstretched hand, Michael took the canteen from Sokanon. Grateful for the drink and a reason to avoid Declan, he drank as much of the cold water as he could, until his throat and the roof of his mouth began to throb in pain from the cold liquid.

He handed it back to Sokanon, looking up at her expectantly as she replaced the cap. Thinking she was going to help him up again, he held his hand out to her, but she turned to walk toward Dimanche and left him to sit on the ground at Declan’s feet.

Confused, Michael slowly withdrew his hand, mouth slightly open as he turned to look at Declan. He tried to ignore the nervous, prickly sensation moving up his spine and the at least halfway amused smirk on Declan’s face.

“She can’t carry you the whole way,” Declan said simply, the smirk disappearing as his expression became serious again.

Michael stiffened at the comment. “She wasn’t carrying me.”

Declan ignored the boy’s defensive comment, holding his hand out to him again. When several seconds passed without Michael even so much as acknowledging the offered hand, he moved to grab the boy’s arm and pull him up forcefully.

The very second Declan chose to grab his arm was the same second Michael picked to take the hand offered to him, making them both pause halfway to wait for the other. Declan’s eyes met Michael’s, and for a split second, Declan was sure he saw a flicker of fear flash across the boy’s face. He backed off then, holding still and giving a slight nod to let Michael know he should be the one to move first.

Michael hesitated, as if he was making sure Declan wouldn’t move, before he finally reached his own hand out and took the one offered to him. He cringed as Declan helped to pull him up, biting his lip to keep himself from groaning in pain. He stifled all but a small grunt, swaying a bit as he was brought to his feet.

“Lean into me,” Declan instructed, his hot breath near Michael’s ear. He pulled the boy in closer instead of waiting for him to do it himself, wrapping his arm around and under his shoulders to steady him.

Michael tensed up, squeezing his eyes shut as he was pulled in closer to Declan. He felt the other man’s breath warm the side of his face, the heat of his body radiating out and warming Michael’s own body. Between the heat of Declan’s breath and body, the unwanted closeness, and the sudden upright position, a wave of nausea hit Michael hard in the gut, making his vision swim and his head feel like it was spinning.

“Are you alright, boy?” Declan asked, reactively tightening his grip on Michael.

“Y-yes,” Michael answered quickly, swallowing hard against the queasiness in his stomach. He opened his eyes, exhaling as he readied himself to take a step. He did so, almost entirely on his own, and instantly regretted it as a sharp pain shot through his body, making him hiss in pain as he nearly doubled over.

Declan kept him mostly upright, supporting his weight. “Lean into me,” he said again, shifting their stance so Michael was as close as he could be. “You’re safe,” he added quietly, feeling Michael try to pull back from the embrace.

Michael accidently whimpered as the statement pierced a thinly veiled nerve, but he silenced it quickly. He cleared his throat to cover it, but the realization had already dawned on Declan, even more so as he noticed Michael’s face was beginning to turn red and his eyes were glistening with tears threatening to fall. It confirmed what Declan was starting to suspect: Michael was afraid of him.

“You’re safe,” Declan said again, and Michael just nodded, refusing to look at him. He wasn’t sure if that meant the boy believed him or just that the conversation was over, but he didn’t press the issue as they began walking. There’d be plenty of time to figure that out after, but right now what they needed most, what Michael needed most, was to get to the Lake Walkers.

Sokanon took up the lead as soon as she saw Declan and Michael begin to move forward, and Dimanche stayed behind to bring up the rear of the group again.

Declan studied Michael’s face as they walked, watching as his expression twisted and contorted as each step caused him at least some degree of pain. He noticed the compacted, wet snow was the easiest for Michael to walk on, as his expression was fairly normal with only an occasional grimace on the smooth terrain. Anything that made him have to take longer strides, or stepping over things, made it more than obvious that the boy was wounded and suffering.

What he was actually suffering from was anyone’s guess at this point, since Michael had decided it was best to just flat out lie about it. Declan didn’t believe a word of it, but he didn’t know for sure either. Aside from the bruises on his face, there were no outward signs of anything that could be ailing the boy. Like Sokanon said, the blood on the front of his shirt seemed like it was drying and, as Declan glanced down at Michael’s shirt, he confirmed all but a handful of dark red blotches were dried. 

He followed the misshapen pattern they formed sprawled out across Michael’s shirt, tracing their outlines with his eyes. If he stared long enough, it almost seemed like the stains made sense, as if they were deliberately and meticulously placed to form some sort of intricate arrangement to be viewed and appreciated. 

His eyes followed the outline of a dark red and not-yet-dried blotch of blood on the middle of Michael’s shirt, dropping down to where the boy’s arm was hovering above the waist of his pants. Declan’s brow furrowed as he came to another realization: Michael was holding the waist of his pants up and closed, his hand acting in place of the buttons quite obviously missing from there.

Thinking of the ways one might lose a button or two when kidnapped, a sickening sense of dread swelled in Declan’s chest, rising from the pit of his stomach. The more he thought about it, the more sense it made. Michael was obviously wounded by the men that took him captive, but he wouldn’t say how. He could barely walk on his own, yet it looked like there wasn’t much wrong with him, minus the bruises on his face. He was jumpy and skittish now, but he wasn’t like that a couple weeks ago. He had been afraid of Declan when they first met, but he was over that within days. Now he seemed more afraid than before. He wanted nothing to do with Declan, and the only person he looked even remotely comfortable with was Sokanon. Of course, there was only four of them here, Michael included, but he seemed much less afraid of her than he did the men, especially Declan. And the one particular scenario he thought of, the word he wouldn’t allow himself to say even if only in the form of a thought, would explain absolutely everything. 

Before Declan even realized what he was doing, he tightened his arm around Michael, giving a gentle squeeze. Thinking of what could have happened to him, what probably happened to him, all Declan wanted to do was comfort and protect the boy. 

And perhaps tightening his arm around the boy, even in just trying to comfort him, wasn’t the best idea, because it earned Declan a confused, and scared, glance from Michael.   
“You’re doing great,” Declan tried to assure him, “We’ll be there in no time.”

Michael kept his eyes on Declan’s face just a bit longer, not responding or even reacting to his words. Declan wondered if they even fully registered as Michael turned his head again, keeping it down as he focused on walking.  
*******  
The sun was setting, barely still visible over the horizon, by the time they reached the Lake Walker camp. They made surprisingly good time, but that was entirely accidental. Michael had wound up taking a wrong step, his legs coming out from underneath him, and Declan had then followed suit. He tried to keep Michael from falling backwards, but his foot caught on a branch behind him and they both landed in the dirt. 

As they fell, Michael landed on his back and Declan fell beside him, halfway on top of him. When Michael didn’t even have the strength to push him off or away, it was then that Declan decided he was going to carry Michael the rest of the way. He protested, loudly, but Sokanon had saved the situation by persuading and reassuring Michael. 

Declan carefully lowered Michael back to the ground as they reached the Lake Walker camp, mindful of the wounds he wouldn’t admit to. Michael whimpered slightly as he feet were rejoined with the ground, biting his lip to stifle any more involuntary noises that might have otherwise slipped out. 

“Are you alright?” Declan asked, keeping his hold on Michael just in case.

“Wait,” Michael asked through grit teeth, squeezing his eyes shut as the wounds on his abdomen throbbed. He grabbed Declan’s arm, holding it tightly as he tried to ride the pain out. “Please, just a second..”

With Michael’s hand on his arm, the entire appendage felt like it was tingling and hot and Declan did his best to ignore the weird fluttering feeling in his gut. It made him feel like he might not have lost Michael’s trust entirely, and that maybe there was at least some degree of faith that the boy still had in him. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew he’d do anything he could to restore whatever was lost, even if it took a lifetime.

After a few moments, Michael opened his eyes again as he let go of Declan, his hand instinctively going to his abdomen and hovering over the lower half of his bloodstained shirt. When he briefly peered up at Declan and realized he was watching his every move, he dropped his hand to his side to not contradict his own lie about not being wounded there. “I.. I think I..” he faltered, trying to come up with a reasonable excuse. “..my ribs are broken, I think. Hurts when I breathe..”

“At least the bleeding stopped,” Declan observed, letting the boy know he was caught in a lie without as many words. He watched as Michael’s eyes widened, his expression that of a scared, cornered animal. The look on his face was confirmation enough for Declan.

“It’s not my blood..” Michael insisted quietly, his heart and mind racing. There had to be a way to salvage this, to keep the others in the dark. He tried to assure himself they knew nothing, not yet, but if Michael’s secrets were a flame, Declan Harp was like a moth drawn to the fire. And he kept getting closer.

Declan had opened his mouth to reply, to argue, to call Michael out on his lie, but he was interrupted by Sokanon trying to get his attention and gesturing to the center of the camp, where Kamenna and several others were waiting for them.

He reached for the boy instead, intending to help him walk again, but Michael pulled back and stepped to the side, nearly bumping into Sokanon. It was obvious, then, that he’d hit another nerve with the boy, and Michael’s response was simply avoidance.

Declan shifted his gaze from Michael’s nervous but hard, and almost challenging, stare to Sokanon, who simply nodded at him to go ahead. He glanced back at Michael one more time before he turned and began walking toward the middle of the camp, Dimanche following behind him.

They talked with Kamenna about the events that transpired the night before, and who was behind the crime committed against her people and her grandson. Declan mentioned that there was another victim and, as if on cue, Sokanon and Michael had made their way over and joined them at that moment.

Kamenna made a sound of sympathy, somewhere between an ‘oh’ and an ‘aw’, as she took in the boy’s battered appearance. 

“He’s wounded, but he won’t tell us what happened,” Declan told her, looking back at Michael and ignoring the betrayed glare he received. 

“Pride is a dangerous thing,” Kamenna said, her compassionate gaze resting on the boy. She gave him a soft smile as she, too, noticed his unease. “Come. Let us look.”

She gestured them in with a wave of her hand, speaking in Cree as she directed a few of her people to accompany her. She turned around and walked to her tent, one of her tribespeople pulling the flap back for her as she neared the entrance.

Sokanon moved toward Kamenna’s tent to follow her, attempting to gently guide Michael forward, but he dug his heels in after the first step and pushed back against her, bracing himself as he refused to go any further. She gave Michael a look that was both questioning and disapproving at the same time, raising an eyebrow slightly as she turned to look at him.

“I told ya, I’m fine,” Michael said, starting to panic at the thought of having to explain what happened to him. His wounds needed to be treated, he knew this, but he was convinced he could handle them on his own without risking anyone finding out what happened. All he needed was a moment alone, and some supplies maybe, and he’d be just fine. And even if he wasn’t, he’d be better off that way than he would be if Declan fuckin’ Harp knew anything. “I just need to sit down.”

“You can sit down inside the tent,” she insisted, using more of her strength to push him forward again. She forced him to take a couple steps toward the tent, but he suddenly veered off in an effort to get away from her. She tightened her grip on the back of his coat in response to the escape attempt, but he quickly shrugged it off his shoulders and slipped out of it, leaving her holding just the garment.   
Michael stumbled slightly as he backed up, defensively holding one arm out in front of himself with the other carefully wrapped around his midsection. “I’m fine,” he repeated, taking in a deep, shaky breath as he tried to steady himself. “We’re wastin’ time doin’ this.”

“We’re wasting time _now_ ,” Dimanche spoke up, an obvious air of irritation and impatience about him as he rolled his eyes. He was tired of how difficult everything had to be with the Irish boy. He was tired of how Declan and Sokanon treated him like he was a prized possession, one that needed to be cared for and protected. “The sooner we’re done here, the sooner we can get back to camp.”

“We’ll never get there if we have to stop to bury Michael,” Declan interjected, noticing how Michael’s pants had slid down a few inches, exposing an angry, bloody laceration near his hip. He knew the boy had been lying about the wound, but seeing it was different than just knowing it was there. “We’ll have to wait for spring, when the ground thaws, and by then Benton will have more of his men arriving by the shipload,” he continued.

He wasn’t disappointed when the joke pulled a just barely visible smirk from Michael’s lips, seemingly mitigating at least some of whatever fear or apprehension he was feeling, but definitely not enough as the he remained rooted in place. 

“After you, Michael,” Declan tried again, changing tactics as he took a few steps forward to herd him toward the tent. It didn’t feel great knowing that Michael was afraid of him, afraid to be near him, but in this case, it was helpful as the pressure of Declan’s proximity to him made Michael take a few steps back, moving closer to the tent without realizing it.

“Wait, I.. Wait,” Michael said hurriedly, stepping back blindly. He knew he’d bled after the attack, felt the tickle of it run down his thigh after, and the cold wetness of it as it lazily dried during their journey. The oversized fur coat, obviously made for a mountain man and not a lithe Irish man, had kept his secret safe, but he’d, stupidly, ditched it before he realized what he was doing.   
“Can I at least have my coat?” he asked, giving serious thought to just grabbing the coat and making a break for it. With his body aching and exhausted from the journey, he knew he’d be lucky if he made it further than a few strides, but the idea was tempting enough to entertain even if he couldn’t follow through with it.

Sokanon stepped forward and closed the distance between her and Michael, standing less than half an arm’s length away from him as she handed over the coat. He muttered a quiet “thanks” as he took the coat and quickly slid it on, doing his best to ignore the obvious scowl directed toward him. 

He swallowed hard then, the comfort of secrecy that his coat brought was fleeting at best. As soon as he went inside, as soon as he got ‘help’, everyone around him would know exactly what happened, and why. 

The pressure of a hand on his lower back made Michael jump slightly and turn his head. Sokanon was at his side again, taking up the supportive position she’d spent half their journey in. Her presence brought him no comfort this time as he leaned into her for support, walking toward what he felt like was his death sentence.


End file.
